His Misconception
by KissTheBoy7
Summary: Partner to "My No Reason". Dr. Cox lives with the misconception that J.D. is happy, but that's been torn away from him. JDox friendship, some angst, you know the drill. Oneshot!


**A/N: I have a problem. Scrubs wormed its way into my skull… And now I have almost as many ideas as I usually do for RENTfics! HELP**

**Disclaimer: I still do not own Scrubs. I'm sorry if you thought otherwise.**

His Misconception

I call newbie girl's names day in and day out. I belittle him, push his buttons, poke fun at all of his feminine qualities- not even he can deny that he has them- and make him feel incompetent on a daily basis. He still follows me around like a puppy and does all of my bidding with that goofy smile on his face, like his world is made of gumdrops and rainbows and sunshine.

Why would I think there was anything wrong? John Dorian is the most sickeningly cheerful doctor I've ever come in contact with, and that includes Molly Clock, who patted my stomach and told me that it was my "creamy center".

He was happy. Happier than me. Right?

I never had a clue.

It really knocked the wind out of me that day. Of course, I always noticed the little things about newbie, not that I would admit it. I am, and if you repeat this I will make damn sure you burn in hell, his mentor. I have to watch his progress. I have to watch HIM.

I'd barely taken notice of the bags under his eyes recently. It was a gradual thing, and gradual things are so much harder to spot than the sudden changes. He was still scampering to my side each day with that huge smile that I couldn't help but notice was a little bit strained- or was I imagining things? He still stopped at the nurses' station to gossip with Carla, still got up to his usual shenanigans with that idiot surgeon that Carla married for who-the-hell knows why. Less often, I noticed, but not enough that I really sat up and studied the matter.

I should have noticed the signs a lot earlier. I guess that's the fault of us real doctors, the ones who don't deal with the stuff in your head. We don't notice the subtle hints.

The long sleeves every day without fail under his scrubs, every single god damned day since he'd started here as a doe-eyed intern, even though we live in California and during the summer it can be sweltering in this godforsaken building. The weariness that was so much more noticeable when he thought that no one he knew was around watching him, like I was. The pain that he hid so well whenever I yelled at him, ranted in his face over the smallest of matters just to get it out of my system before I went home to play house with Jordan and Jack. The way a couple of scalpels went missing every year from the supply and we all just shrugged our shoulders, figuring it was a typo.

Of course I hadn't given it any thought. After all, doctors aren't STUPID. We are, collectively, the brains of this entire country and possibly the entire world. We know what's unhealthy, and we try to avoid it.

What the fuck was he thinking?

I'm just glad that I'm normally an observant person, I guess, or I wouldn't have caught that exaggerated wince that he made or the soft hiss of pain when I grabbed at his grist to make him turn and look at me while I chewed him out in the empty on-call room for once again letting my name slip in front of a patient. But I did, and then it all hit me at once. All of those little observations… It was like a brick. There was something wrong here.

"Sheila, I don't think my grip is all THAT tight," I said slowly, furrowing my brows. His eyes widened, the blue bright and clear as it hadn't been in weeks in his sudden panic. He'd made a mistake, and he knew it. "Care to tell me what's causing you so much pain, newbie? Because it sure as hell can't be my hand, because BELIE-HE-HE-EVE me, if I wanted you hurt, you'd be writhing in agony on the floor over there."

He swallows, apparently having a brain malfunction as he stares at me for a minute, froze. Maybe he just can't think of what to say. He doesn't have an excuse ready- he never thought he'd be found out. I whistle piercingly, impatient, and he jumps about afoot into the air.

"It's nothing, Dr. Cox. I, ah, have a bruise… It hurts."

Even if I was the slowest doctor in this hospital- and I am not- I would have detected the note of dread in his voice as he answered too quickly. My mind is racing as I start to piece things together even as I act too quickly for him to prevent me from lunging forward and yanking up his sleeve, saying, "Like hell it's nothing-"

And then for once I don't have any words. I'm fresh out. Because this is just something I never expected to see.

J.D., as I very rarely call him, is in some ways my best friend. Despite the imbalance of power that defines our relationship, all the verbal abuse and occasionally even a slap on the wrist, I'm seeking his approval, too. I don't think that I could stand it if newbie just up and left my life.

Who would bother me every day and ask for a hug that I was never going to give him out of sheer stubbornness? Who would follow me like my own pet puppy, wagging his tail and jumping through hoops for me at my beck and call? Who would bring my coffee, exactly as I liked it, without y even asking and get it right every time? Who would come to me with his difficult cases, or the tricky financial ones, for guidance and help that he only wanted from me and nobody else? I'll only say it once: I need that self-esteem. He gives it to me. For his entire internship, I know that he thought of me as his hero, and I was actually sad when I discovered that he was beginning to grow up and realize that I'm only human.

So, the point: he's important to me. I don't usually like to say it in so many words, but I can make this the exception.

It's not every day you see a wrist so decorated with red and pink slashes.

In the back of my mind, I note that in one area I can see, faintly etched on his pale skin underneath countless other scars, the word "Carol". It makes me want to throw up.

I can't comprehend it.

He's so happy. All the time with the daydreaming and the geeky, girly references and the excitement about him. He and his wife, Gandhi, were like kindergarteners sometimes with the stunts they pulled. He had some of the closest friends I'd ever seen, and sometimes I was actually jealous of the support he had around him that I'd never had.

Was it my fault?

That thought shattered my calm, and I felt cold fear tingle up my spine. Carol… I used that one the most on him. The fact that it had appeared as a set of scars on his arm could very easily mean that it was, indeed, all my fault. I had to know. No matter if he was having a crisis, right in this moment I had to know if I was the one who'd made him turn to something like this.

"Why in God's name- Why, newbie? Just tell me why?" I try to keep the pleading out of my tone, try to stay on my feet when I start to get dizzy, and my resoluteness pays off because I end up looking only a little bit lost and otherwise in complete control of myself. Newbie, however, looks nauseous and about to cry.

I don't think he has an answer for me yet. I suppose I can understand that.

There are those tears that I'd seen in his eyes before, spilling over down his cheeks and I don't even think he's noticed at all. The poor kid probably just got his biggest secret outed to the last person he'd ever want to know it. I felt bad, almost.

It's sad that even in that moment I was refraining, consciously, from making any jokes about his femininity. God, I have a problem.

I pull him towards me and wrap one arm around him in what I refuse even now to call a hug. I was just keeping him upright as he sobbed into my shirt. As a doctor, I'd had blood, vomit and excrement on my clothes before- sometimes all at once. A few tears were nothing. I'd just have this coat washed later. But every time I'd wear if from then on, I'd have to think of the way newbie lost it right there in that empty room with the neatly made bed and the window cracked open to give us some fresh air…

He's fucking apologizing. Unbelievable. I knew he had some problems with self-esteem, but this was just… twisted. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry" over and over until I start tuning it out. I just raise a hand, tentatively at first, and place it on his head so that I can comfortingly stroke his hair as he becomes hysterical.

If I ever have a daughter, I'll already have the practice for her first breakup…

"Shhh, newbie," I murmur, trying to block out the horrifying mental images of his wrist or the one of someone we know, Turk or Carla or god forbid the new interns, walking in here and seeing me with my guard down helping out the man I always said that I wanted booted out of my life. "You're gonna be fine."

He doesn't believe me, but I hope that my soothing tone helps a little bit.

I'm glad that I got one of the residents to cover my patients while I went to harass newbie today because we were in that room for a while. Eventually he calmed- sobs became sniffles and his senseless apologies ceased. We lapsed into an oddly comfortable silence.

"Why, newbie?" I dare to ask again when he's quiet in my arms- oh God, could that be taken the wrong way. No. I mean… he was just quiet. Okay.

He swallows again, peeking up at me through his dark lashes. Those baby blues were wide and helpless. I could imagine him as a sad baby deer, yes. Bambi. I'd never understood Carla's mother-hen nickname so well.

"I've… always been this way."

I let this sink in, from the hopeless, tired look that came over him when he said it to the way his shoulders tensed and he looked away from me. Newbie…. Had some serious issues to work out. And damn it, I was going to have to be the one to force him to go do that, wasn't I?

"We're going to have to fix you, newbie."

….

He wasn't easy to drag to therapy. He begged me, literally got on his knees and BEGGED, not to tell Carla or her idiot husband anything about this. Or Barbie, if she happened to stop by, though I knew that she wouldn't. Apparently the entire reason that he moved out of the apartment that was originally his was to allow his friends to work on their marriage and allow them their alone time without him as a distraction.

I monitored him for the next couple of months. His therapist didn't have to tell me to- I would have anyways. And I was always there at is therapy sessions, every single one.

It started out innocently enough. I just wanted to observe, be there for moral support. I knew he wanted me there, even if he wouldn't ask. Unfortunately I couldn't help but pay attention to what was being said. Not all of it was good for my mental health.

He talked about suicide. All of the ways that he could do it. How he could do it as easily as breathing, without thinking, if he ever put his mind to it. I was more than a little sick to my stomach when he started talking about the cutting. It started in high school, typical self-loathing teenager, and continued into college until he got some professional help… but then came med school, then came his internship under ME, and there was never any real explanation for why he did it except that he was the way he was and it had always been inevitable.

I was pulled aside that day by the therapist, a short, capable man with wire-rimmed glasses and a frown in my direction. "I'd like you to participate in the next session," he told me. I couldn't even find the strength to argue, dread bottoming out my stomach as I thought about "Carol" on newbie's arm.

Dear Lord, it was all my fault.

….

John Dorian is gay.

He's also clinically depressed.

I contributed to that.

Head in my hands, I recall that therapy session. It was LONG. Four hours of a head shrink analyzing our feelings, yes, both of ours. I was involved. I was a cause. And a solution. At the same time.

God, my head was pounding. I was out of scotch. Damn it.

We talked about J.D.'s past at first, and how I happened to trigger his self-esteem issues when he began as an intern. It was the kind of person I am. I make everybody around me feel like shit- everyone knows it, and very rarely do I ever feel bad about it. All newbie has to do is turn on the waterworks, though, and the guilt is suffocating me.

We talked about the verbal abuse I put him through. My patented rants, my de-masculinization of him every day, the way I refused to call him by his actual name and instead replace it with any female name off the top of my head, or my "pet name" for him, newbie.

For once, I was sitting down and talking about things with him instead of calling him Nancy and shooing him away. I felt vulnerable, out in the open. He was tearful and I yelled, ranted, at the therapist whenever I thought he'd gone too far with his questioning. I shook newbie's hand off of mine the first time he subtly reached for it, but I let him the second time.

Sometimes you have to be there for a friend, even if it makes you uncomfortable.

When we got to talking about his arms and the interestingly shaped scars on the right one, I thought I might pass out.

"It was your favorite name, you used it the most. So it was the first thing I could think of…"

His words clawed at my chest. I made the man beside me carve a name that had no value at all to him into his arm, all because I was an insensitive bastard who got off on belittling others.

Well, not necessarily NO value… Since it was my favorite, and I was his mentor, it meant something.

That didn't make me feel any better.

….

It's been four months since I had my misconceptions shatter before my very eyes as I lifted up J.D.'s sleeve. Four long months of late night phone calls, therapy sessions- the therapist had a restraining order filed after I lost it and destroyed his desk, but I still waited outside the door for newbie to come out and tell me how it went.

He wasn't my responsibility, but I couldn't kick the feeling that it was my fault. It's not as though anyone else had to know. I had the sneaking suspicion that Jordan knew from the evil way she smiled at me once when she noticed me sitting on the floor with my back to the door, waiting for him to come out.

Then again that could just be the way her face is shaped.

It doesn't matter. Today marks four months of recovery, and I feel an unwanted sense of pride welling up in me before shoving it down. Not one cut. Not one relapse. My mind whispers that there will be one, has to be, eventually, but I threaten to kick its ass and it settles down with only a few other sarcastic comments to make.

He's happier, lately. Not happy like I thought he was before, but really happy. The smile on his face is genuine and even his friends can sense the happiness just oozing out of his pores.

The scars are there and they always will be- I can't erase them, that shrink can't and J.D. can't no matter how much all of us might want to.

The funny thing is, I don't think that he wants to. They're always going to be a reminder of what he's been through and what he had to overcome. I think that he might just need that.

I'm done with the misconceptions. I'm noticing things now about him, taking the time out of my day for someone who I never thought I would acknowledge was my friend but knew all along that he was. Carla gave me a funny look the first time I deliberately sat next to him at their lunch table, but I'm confident that she doesn't know anything beyond that we're a little bit closer than we used to be.

I'm not the most sensitive guy, at least not on the outside. I don't let things get to me. I have a hard outer shell and I like it that way. If I can be the jackass who makes all of the sarcastic, biting comments and not the one on the receiving end, then by GOD I'll do it. And I'll knock down anyone in my way.

I've found that with newbie, I can't do that. He IS the sensitive guy, and his shell isn't as thick as mine. I get to him, and I'm not going to pretend not to notice anymore.

We're not girly, giggly BFF's like he and his black wife are, or like he is with Barbie or Carla. We don't gossip and hang out on the weekends, because those are not things that Perry Cox does.

We ARE, however, there when one of us needs somebody to lean on.

But I guess that if people find out about this whole mess, I'll have to fess up.

John Dorian may very well be my best friend.


End file.
